My body is a temple
made of blood and bones and guts and viscera
Its heart beats despite,
in spite.
An act of defiance.

My body is a temple.
It has been hallowed by the ghosts of all the women I was before.
A martyr.
A victim.
The Patron Saint of Survival carries not a cross or a shield,
but the hands of yet another little girl who had to learn how to fight too early.

My body is a temple.
Her walls are made of broken promises.
Her foundation is built upon the graves of her fallen sisters,
the gravel of bloodstained parking lots,
and the busted frames of locked doors.
Sanctified by the tears I cried every night,
wondering if I could ever be holy again.
Bearing holy water to quench those unable to fill their own cups,
and to poison those who emptied them in the first place.

My body is a temple.
A lighthouse for those braving rough seas.
An example for my enemies.
A shelter for those who have not yet learned how to build their own.

My body is a temple.
She sheds her skin every month,
rebuilding herself over and over,
until the armor of her flesh can withstand even the worst of your weapons.
The fangs you sharpened with the bones of my sisters, my mothers and grandmothers, cannot pierce its flesh.
Your laws will not govern its halls.

My body.
My choice.
My temple.

I will burn it to the ground before I allow you to desecrate it.